Rose
by JansenFriedh827
Summary: The worst thing he was forced to endure, however, was not the voices of those screaming in pain, or the thoughts of hate; the worst thing he had to endure were the voices encouraging him to pull the trigger. Holocaust one-shot, Germany-centered.


Here's a short drabble-ish thing for you. I wrote this while listening to Einsamkeit and other random songs.

This is by far the saddest, most angsty, most gut-wrenching thing I've ever written. One reason why is because this is on something that happened. I know this has been done, but this plot bunny has been bothering me for months. Now, I've written it. I ended up depressing myself more than anything. I had to do research on Hitler and the Holocaust and World War II, just to make sure I knew what I was writing about. I didn't mention Germany's name much in here- only once- but you know who it is. I didn't mention his name because the more I do, the more he seems like just an anime character, but since this is a real event, I wanted him to seem like he was a real human who had to endure this.

Thanks for reading. **I don't own Hetalia.** I'm sorry if this is bad or what- I wrote it quickly and didn't want to read it over again, so yeah. Thanks a LOT for reading, though.

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><p>There were so many things that one could easily identify as wrong that occurred during the Holocaust and World War II. The first could be the unreasonable arguments for the millions of deaths caused. Germany knew this firsthand. He had never agreed with the ideas, but it wasn't until he felt the hundreds of thousands of deaths that initially sprung from the movement that he knew how wrong it truly was. He could feel the tortured pain of all of his people- not viruses, like some called them, but his own citizens, burning, being poisoned, dying by the hands of his own soldiers. The overwhelming surge of fire that would spread from his chest when a life was taken was a constant reminder of what was happening, that which he could not stop. The shrieking pleads and thoughts of those who were being murdered would constantly buzz through his mind, everyone yelling and screaming at once. He confined himself to his room, trying to drown the pain and his guilt in alcohol. Even through the intoxication he could feel the pain from his chest, like someone was crushing him or setting a match in him, and he could hear the screams of his people as they pleaded for sanctuary. It was near unbearable.<p>

Another overwhelming aspect to the happenings was when his leader found him in his room, drunk, sleep-deprived, and on the edge of sanity. Instead of taking him to a hospital, his leader sent him to a camp where they held tons of his own citizens to be killed. He had to watch them murder thousands of them in front of him, throw their bodies into a pit like they were dolls. Men, women, children- he felt anger that his own men were doing this on front of him, without a second glance.

His leader handed him a gun and told him to shoot. He could do nothing else. Every time he was forced to shoot, he would feel that same fiery pain, as though he were shooting parts of himself. Every time someone looked at him with that fear, or those desperate eyes, pleading freedom, he would feel something grip his emotions, and he would find himself unable to shoot. His leader would come over to him and force him to shoot. The same pain would bloom throughout his body. He gripped his gun tightly, waiting for the fire to pass, closing his eyes in a hope that it would be over, and his leader would merely disappear. He opened his eyes and was forced to look into those same, pleading eyes, was forced to hear those same thoughts, asking for mercy.

Worse than the pleading, desperate, or hopeless gazes that were thrown towards him, were the looks of hate and determination. Those who refused to give in to death, those who were cursing him as a heartless soldier who followed without hesitation, cursed him to the deepest pits of wherever traitors and murderers were condemned to. He could do nothing in return when he met that gaze. The look of someone who believed in justice, and that the murderers would get what they deserved. Germany gripped his gun and shot.

The worst thing of everything he was forced to endure, however, was not the voices of those screaming in fear and pain, or the thoughts of hate; the worst thing he had to endure were the thoughts encouraging him to pull the trigger. The thoughts and feelings of his leader coursed through him, voices that told him that these people were poison to the clean German society. The sentiments that these people deserved to be killed for existing. He would stow away in his room, feeling the pain of death, the hopeless feelings, and then the thoughts that all of this was for the greater good. He'd catch himself thinking how great this was, and how the country was being cleansed, and how the world would be next. They were leading humanity in a movement that would lead everyone to a perfect society. He would find himself proud of the deaths that were plaguing his country. After every thought, he'd attempt to drown himself in alcohol again, to close his eyes to the gaze of those determined for justice, to forget the searing pain ripping in his chest, to block the thoughts of those who cursed him or who cursed their fates. As night came and day soon followed, he'd awaken to the same feeling of numbness, and rise to take the gun again.


End file.
